


19th Moon

by LiteralistSin



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Angst, Ends on a Hopeful Note, Gen, kind of depressive, mentions of attempted suicide and self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:53:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21717193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiteralistSin/pseuds/LiteralistSin
Summary: Loosely connected drabble to depict Ashwatthama and his decaying state of mind, rotting sense of self - after the war and before the events of Lostbelt 4. Contains somewhat heavy references to the Mahabharata.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	19th Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jean bean](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=jean+bean).



As he wandered around aimlessly, he thought back on the past events, the things he had done and the things he had not. Especially the ones he hadn’t done. Especially the ones he wanted to do. 

The first few years passed by with him stuck in his memories, regret over killing an innocent, lamenting a fruitless revenge that gave him nothing but an eternal unrest. He was sure many dreamt of immortality - but he wondered how many dreamt of an immortal life that couldn’t be shared with others. He wondered how many wished for an immortal life of being alone forever, while his wounds didn’t heal and his flesh rotted and the numbness in his heart grew to cover his limbs. If there was someone like that - someone as pitiful as that - he would exchange his fate with theirs in a heartbeat. 

[He looks up at the sky and wonders if the gods still looked down on him and saw the state he was in. He thinks that, maybe, he wouldn’t really exchange his fate even if someone was willing - he doesn’t have the heart to subject someone else to this. Not anymore. Not after all he had done and all that had been done to him.]

The few years after were spent wandering Kurukshetra, before a barren land that still seemed to be soaked with blood decades after the war. He knelt down for a long time, alone in the place where he knew his father had passed away. Where his brothers had lost their lives and the war. Where he sinned and was punished for it. He marvelled at the fact that his father had only lost because he grieved  _ his _ death, forgetting that he himself had never feared death. Never. Why grieve for someone who wasn’t affected in the first place? Why grieve for him? He wouldn’t have been sad if he died. He wouldn’t be pained. It was the honour of a Kshatriya to die on the battlefield - even if he wasn’t actually one. He wished he had that chance again.

Kurukshetra was fertile soon enough. He wondered if there would be a forest if the war never took place. What if these trees fed on the blood of his brothers-in-arms? What if nature thrived on the bones and ashes of the dead? He stopped thinking of that, and made the forest his home. It was alright. He was cursed to live, so live he shall. 

[As he gets water from a creak he realises he barely looks like himself anymore. He doesn’t know the mad-looking man in the blurry reflection, a man covered with blood and pus and dirt. That’s not him. He’s not  _ this _ , he can’t be - he can’t be he can’t be he can’t be he can’t be he can’t be! Anything but this! 

He stomps away, throat still parched. But it’s alright, it’s not like he’ll die even if he dehydrates himself or starves himself over and over and over again.]

The next few decades - or centuries? - felt like a painful dream. Every night he lay awake trying to recount the past, and every day he woke up feeling like he had forgotten everything. First were the faces. He couldn’t properly remember their faces anymore. He remembered Karna’s weapons, he remembered Duryodhana’s throne, he even remembered Shakuni’s dice - but how did they look like, again? He tried really hard to picture them. It felt like trying to grasp mist, almost there, but not within his reach. He had bits and pieces of memories left, he remembered them without being able to draw them in his mind.

Next were the names. He had sporadic dreams of silhouettes, static voices popping up here and there. A familiar feeling, a feeling of warmth so overwhelming that he wanted to cry when he saw an old looking rishi. Who? Who was he? Who was he? He felt mad at himself for not remembering, he felt betrayed by his own self. He knew it was someone important, how could he forget like that? How  _ dare _ he forget like that?

Before long, he started to hallucinate. There were people hidden in the crevices of his mind that he couldn’t see, and people popping up around him. Maybe they were ghosts. Maybe it was because he didn't have his gem anymore that they could get close to him now. Maybe it was all because of that man - that -

Who?

[A woman flashes in his mind’s eye and his head hurts. There is a voice condemning him to three thousand years of suffering, a dark skinned hand coming to his forehead to rip out his naga jewel. His head hurts again, just like it had when - when? It hurts. It hurts in a familiar sort of pain that he doesn’t remember anymore, but his body does. 

He lets himself fall to his knees.

_ I’m sorry, _ whispers something inside of him. Maybe he’s saying it out loud. 

_ I’m so sorry. _

He doesn’t know who’s sorry, he doesn’t know who he’s apologising to, he just knows he wants to die right now. He wants this to end. He regrets himself, loathes being like this, loathes this loose sense of identity he has regarding himself. The easiest solution is to try and commit suicide - but it’s no use. 

He just ends up with a few more wounds that will never heal.]

Many moons passed, forgetting and recounting and living in a trance similar to death. But not quite.

It was long before he actually started to keep count of the years again. Slowly he came back to the present, after a millennia or so - he guessed - and it seemed like the very air on the land had changed. There were more people, more lives, and it seemed like the world would always restore balance to itself. 

There was no trace of that war that cleaved the world into two and shattered the skies ever occurring. No trace of his sin or his sacrifice or his sentence. 

And slowly, as the villages thrived and the kingdoms rose and fell and the people lived and lost - he took better care of himself. Maybe soon enough he would be able to look at his reflection and recognise the person he saw.

Ashwatthama was  _ his _ name, and only he could shoulder his own burden and face his own fate. He decided it was about time to at least hold on to that fact now, regardless of the other ‘facts’ he had already forgotten. 

Wasn’t it alright to try and live now that he  _ was _ alive? Maybe he deserved it, he didn’t really know enough to judge. If he didn't remember, he could fool himself into thinking it never happened, right? He just had a name, and no purpose, and people lived and loved with no knowledge of his existence.

And soon enough, the forests disappeared, him along with them. Slowly, ever so slowly, it became alright to try and live if he was alive.

**Author's Note:**

> so anw no thoughts head hot ash is coping and we love that for him!! like and subscribe and dont forget to hit the bell button


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